Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare The Novelisation
by Warhammer 2-4
Summary: Call of Duty 4. Six days that changed everything. On hiatus due to IRL situation.
1. Prologue: FNG

Note: While I will be following the game's canon, I will change some of the weapons to be a little more modern, and allow the player characters to speak once in a while. Other than that, no big changes or anything. Oh, and I apologize if you see any similarities to other people's stories. I can be influenced by other authors, but I'm no plagiarizer.

Disclaimer: I don't own Call of Duty, unless you count the legally bought PC copies of Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare and Call of Duty: World at War.

A/N: Well readers, this is my first attempt at fanfiction, so I hope you enjoy it. Remember to review. Constructive critiscism is welcome. Flames are not.

* * *

**Credenhill, UK**

"Good news first, the world's in great shape."

"Gaz", as the Lieutenant at the briefing was called, was a member of what many considered to be one of, if not the best special forces units in the world.

The 22nd Special Air Service, known by its own simply as, "The Regiment".

He was second in command of a squad led by Captain John Price. Currently, Gaz was briefing the Captain on the state of world affairs. He took out his laptop, turned it on, and opened a few files. He tilted the screen to allow the Captain a better view.

"We've got a civil war in Russia, government loyalists against Ultranationalist rebels, with 15,000 nukes at stake." Video feed of loyalists and rebels clashing in Russian streets popped up.

"Just another day at the office..." Price replied with a sigh.

Gaz nodded in agreement, and clicked on another button.

"Khaled Al-Asad. Currently the second most powerful man in the Middle East." An image of Al-Asad appeared. "Word on the street is that's he got the minerals to be top dog down there. Intel's keeping an eye on him."

Captain Price nodded. "And the bad news?"

"We've got a new guy joining us today, fresh out of Selection. His name's Soap."

* * *

Trooper John "Soap" Mactavish was, for lack of a better term, bored. The bus traveled and shook along the crude road towards the SAS facility at Credenhill, making for a rather bumpy ride. As the bus bounced along the road, MacTavish reflected that he had come a long way from the recruitment center. He had joined the British army as a sniper, and had quickly gained a reputation for being an excellent shot. Anything that was in range of his rifle and needed to be taken care of was dead. MacTavish was known for making his shooting smooth and fluid, like a ballet dancer. Eventually, he was dubbed "Soap". The name suited him. Not only could he drill a target from a thousand meters away, Soap was quite proficient at close-quarter engagements as well. Snipers had to be good spotters as well, and spotters usually carried weapons like assault rifles or shorter-barreled carbines. So while long-range shooting was Soap's game, he could switch to CQB-orientated combat in a flash.

The Selection course had been far beyond brutal. Washout rates were rather high. Over half the people had left in the first few weeks. Soap had thought himself lucky to be alive as people just disappeared after being rejected and sent home. Only a select few had survived the torture, and somehow, Soap stood among them.

The bus stopped, and the soldiers stepped off, glad to get some fresh air. They received instructions to find the barracks, spend 15 minutes to settle in, and report to the armory. Soap didn't have too much luggage, so unpacking was easy and he got comfortable. Soap was the first to leave the barracks and headed off to the armory.

* * *

Soap stepped into the warehouse containing the armory to be greeted by a Lieutenant.

"Trooper John MacTavish reporting as requested, sir."

The Lieutenant looked up from where he had been cleaning his rifle. "You would be "Soap", correct?"

Soap's eyebrows rose. How did they know that?

The Lieutenant chuckled at Soap's expression. "It's just a name that's...well, sort of-"

"Odd, sir?", Soap ventured.

"I suppose so." The man chuckled again. "You can call me Gaz."

"Yes sir...Gaz."

Gaz grinned, before he slipped into a more serious demeanor. "Alright, go get a rifle from the table." Gaz gestured towards a table in front of a room full of weapons, from a AKM to a Javelin to Claymores. On the table was a single G36C carbine, with four magazines lying beside it. Soap walked over and picked it up along with the magazines. "Load your rifle.", Gaz instructed. "Go to station one, and aim your rifle downrange."

Soap peered through the Tasco Red Dot Sight mounted on the rifle. "Shoot each target while aiming down the sights." Two wooden targets appeared. Soap had set the G36C to semi-automatic to save ammo. The first target went down within half a second of popping up, and the other target followed a moment later.

"Lovely... Now, shoot at the targets while firing from the hip." Soap do so, and put down three targets that popped up slightly further away.

"Now I'm going to block the targets with a sheet of plywood." A 3 millimeter-thick board popped up, obscuring the targets. Soap fired at the targets based on where they had been the last time. The 5.56 x 45mm NATO rounds punched through the wood and the targets on the other side fell once again. "Good. Bullets will penetrate thin, weak materials like wood, plaster, and sheet metal. Now I'm going to make the targets pop up one at a time. Hit all of them as fast as you can." Soap took the opportunity to reload. Then, targets sprung up and Soap acted on instinct, firing single shots. The test ended half a minute later as the last target fell with a thud.

"Proper good job mate!" Gaz complimented. Soap allowed himself a small smile. "Now go get a sidearm from the armory." Soap walked over and grabbed a SIG Sauer P226 and slipped it into his holster. "Good. Now switch to your rifle." It took about a second to do so. "Now pull out your sidearm." Soap allowed the G36C to drop to his side, hanging from it's strap, and withdrew his P226 in half a second. "Remember, switching to your pistol is always faster than reloading."

Soap nodded in the affirmative. Gaz continued. "Using your knife is even faster than switching to your pistol. Knife the watermelon." Gaz gestured to a watermelon and a combat knife on the table besides him. Soap picked up the knife and slashed the melon, which disintegrated. "Nice! Your fruit killing skills are remarkable!" Soap smirked. "Soap? Captain Price wants to see you in Hanger One."

"Yes, si- Gaz." _Damn._ That was going to take some time to get used to. Soap headed out the door from which he had come in.

* * *

It didn't take long for Soap to reach the hanger. He heard voices as he neared the giant sliding doors. The doors opened, revealing a small cluster of men, all dressed in black kits, complete with gas masks. All of them, except one. Soap swallowed as he realized that he was looking at no one else but Captain Price.

"It's the F.N.G. sir," One of the SAS motioned towards Soap.

"Go easy on him sir, it's his first time in the Regiment." Soap decided that the comment was more sarcastic and degrading than meaningful.

"Right...what the hell kind of name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you pass Selection?" Price looked down on Soap with his arms crossed. He struck an imposing figure. An awkward silence fell.

"I guess I was in that 7 percent, sir." Soap meekly replied at last.

The Captain merely nodded. "Soap, it's your turn to take the CQB test. Everyone else, go to observation. For this test, you'll have to run the cargoship solo in less than half a minute. Gaz holds the current squadron record at 19 seconds. Good luck. Climb the ladder over there." Price gestured for Soap to climb a ladder leading up to a scaffold.

Soap reached the top of the ladder, and a SAS operative at the top helped him up. "Ok...Soap, here are your instructions. You'll go through the course, shooting the targets. This is a timed event. When you exit the course, your time will be recorded. I will subtract time based on your accuracy. Understand?"

"Right..." Soap answered. This was his chance to prove that he wasn't just another blundering muppet that didn't know what to do. Hopefully he wouldn't screw this up.

"Good man. Take that MP5 and those flashbangs. Grab the rope on my mark." Soap braced himself. "Standby...standby...GO GO GO!"

* * *

Soap grabbed the rope and slid all the way to the bottom. Three targets just like the ones back at the shooting range popped up through what looked like the "bridge" of the ship mock-up. Three double-taps sounded, and three targets fell backwards.

"Position 2, GO!" Soap sprinted into the "bridge" and down a staircase. A target that popped up at the bottom of the stairs and was greeted by three 9mm rounds to the "head". Soap turned left to see another room where targets had just appeared. "Position 3, GO! Flashbang through the door!" Soap pulled the pin on one of his newly acquired flashbangs and tossed it through the door. He waited outside the room so as not to be blinded. _Boom. _Soap rushed in, putting down the targets with unnerving speed and accuracy.

"Position 4! GO!" Two more double-taps, two targets met the floor. "Position 5, GO! Soap lobbed another flashbang through the door, and two targets sprang up immediately and were put down just as quickly. "Final position, GO! Sprint to the finish!"

Soap burst across the finish line and stopped, leaning against the wall for support and breathing heavily. Once he had recovered, he walked over to the monitors that made up the observation area, and waited for Price to finish his evaluation.

* * *

"Damn..." The Captain broke the silence.

"What's the score?" One of the other SAS leaned over to look at the clipboard in Price's hands. His jaw dropped.

"Bloody hell! 20.1 seconds...?" The SAS looked over to Soap with a subtle respect that had not been there before.

One of the SAS nudged another.

"I think Gaz has competition."

Price smirked. "He's not going to like this..."

"Bloody right."

Captain Price turned to Soap with a small smile. "Welcome to the SAS."

Soap grinned.

He motioned to the three SAS at his side. "This is Corporal Hopkins, this is Corporal Griffin, and this is Sergeant Wallcroft." They nodded to each other in acknowledgement.

Price addressed the group. "Gentlemen, the cargo ship mission is a go. Wheels up at 0200. Dismissed."


	2. Prologue: Crew Expendable

Disclaimer: I don't own Call of Duty, unless you count the legally bought PC copies of Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare and Call of Duty: World at War.

Please review.

* * *

**Credenhill, UK**

Gaz was indeed unhappy to hear about Soap's _first _cargo ship mockup time. As the squad geared up, Gaz sent Soap glares that reminded him of the saying, "_If looks could kill..._" However, Gaz was a man of good humor, and after several "death glares", Soap and Gaz looked at each other and burst out laughing at the same time. Gaz suggested a competition between the two to see who could nail the course faster. Soap's only response was: "You're on."

However, before that could happen, they would have to concentrate on the mission first.

They packed lightly, only bringing water, their weapons and ammo, and in Gaz's case, a small Geiger counter. They reassembled in the briefing room 20 minutes later. Captain Price was waiting for them. He opened the laptop that Gaz had been using earlier, and bought up another file.

"Bravo Team, the intel from this op comes directly from our informant in Russia. The package is aboard a medium freighter. Estonian registration number 52775." A schematic of the ship appeared. "There is a small crew and a security detail on board." Price scanned the squad. "Any questions? Gaz raised his hand. A nod was sent his way. "Gaz?"

"Rules of engagement sir?"

Price smirked slightly. "Crew expendable."

* * *

**Somewhere in the Bering Strait**

The rain pounded against the American UH-60 Blackhawk, callsign Hammer 2-4 relentlessly, as if Mother Nature herself was insulted by the hulk of flying metal defying the rough weather and was trying to bring it down to kiss the cold, icy depths below. Soap leaned his head back against the metal seat and tried to catch some sleep. Much to his misfortune however, the lightning, and along with it, the thunder, intensified. Soap sighed. No rest for him now...

With nothing else to do, Soap checked his weapons. Lying on his lap was an MP5SD, a version of the infamous Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machinegun that came with an integrally suppressed barrel for stealthy operations. He had 8 extra magazines strapped to his thigh. In his holster was the SIG Sauer P226 that he had received earlier that day. Also in two separate pouches were flashbang grenades and fragmentation grenades, four each.

"Baseplate, this is Hammer Two-Four. We have visual on the target. E.T.A sixty seconds."

"Copy 2-4."

The lightening crackled, and the cargo ship came into view as the helicopter drifted closer.

Soap glanced over to his Captain, who was smoking. His gaze slid across Gaz, Griffin, Wallcroft and Hopkins. They were all well-trained, experienced operators. The newest man after Soap was Griffin. Even he however, had been on a few missions before. While Soap had seen his share of combat, he wondered how he would do compared to the more professional members of his team. Although he had shown that he indeed had the skills when he had come almost within a second of beating Gaz's time, combat was a different thing. One mistake, one moment of hesitation, and he could be dead. Before Soap could think anymore however, the pilot's voice sounded over the intercom.

"Thirty seconds, going dark."

Soap sighed, and shook any trace of sleepiness from his body. He stared at the deck of the cargo ship as it grew closer.

"Ten seconds. Radio check, going to a secure channel."

"Lock and load." said Captain Price. He pulled a gas mask over his head.

Soap copied him, making sure that the mask fit properly. He flipped off the safety off on the MP5SD and released the bolt, chambering a round.

"Green light, go go go!" Hopkins was sitting near the rope, and he pushed it out of the chopper as it slowed, where it landed with a soft thud on the rain-lashed deck below. Seconds later, he was gone. Price disappeared right after that, and Soap followed suit. Grabbing the thick rope through his fast-roping gloves, Soap was on the ground in seconds. Right in front of Soap and the others were five crewmen who were confused at the sudden appearance of the men dressed in black.

"Weapons free." Soap, Price, and Hopkins opened fire, cutting them down. Some tried to make a break for it, to no avail. The SAS were simply too well-trained for the poor souls inside to have any chance.

* * *

"Bridge secure. Hold your fire. Gaz, stay in the bird until we secure the deck, over."

"Roger that."

They quickly removed their fast-roping gloves. Price kicked the door to the bridge open, and Soap took point. He descended down a staircase much like the one in the cargo ship mockup. Off-tune singing entered his ears, and Soap turned to face a drunken sailor staggering out of a nearby room, complete with a bottle of vodka in his hands. Without much thought, Soap put a single 9mm round in his head.

That certainly had never been in the mock up.

By now, Price and Hopkins were also downstairs. Price took over the duty of point man. He stopped and looked into the room where the drunk had emerged from. The Captain raised his suppressed Diemaco C8 carbine and fired two shots, and then went out the door. Hopkins and Soap followed, and the latter paused briefly to see what Price had shot at. Two sailors in their bunks, each with a hole between their eyes, greeted him. The F.N.G. frowned slightly at the thought of killing sleeping, unarmed men, but shrugged it off. They were hostiles after all, there were two loaded AKM assault rifles lying next to the bunk, and the team had no room for prisoners on this op anyway. He followed his captain.

"Forward deck is clear; greenlight on Alpha, go!" Another rope fell to the deck, and in order, Wallcroft, Gaz, and Griffin slipped down the rope and rejoined their squadmates.

Gaz nodded at Price. "Ready sir."

"Fan out. Three meter spread." Bravo Team spread themselves across the width of the ship, covering all angles.

"Contact. Two tangos with taclights on the platform up ahead." muttered Gaz.

"I see them." Price replied. "Weapons free."

Captain Price and Gaz quickly dropped the pair with double taps from their suppressed C8 carbines.

"X-Ray down."

"Target eliminated."

* * *

Hammer 2-4 hovered over the deck as Bravo Team swept the deck. Soap was beginning to think that maybe it was a little _too_ quiet when-

The roar of a RPD light machinegun spitting out 7.62 x39mm bullets at 650 rounds per minute caused Soap to yell "SHIT!" and sprint for cover. The rest of Bravo returned fire, before dashing to cover themselves. A second RPD joined the first, along with 4 G3 battle rifles. Gaz turned to Price.

"Sir, elevated position at our 12 o'clock." He rose his head slightly, before ducking back down. "Gonna be hard to neutralize from here, sir."

"Squad! See if you can get a few frags in there." said Price, while unhooking a frag from his own vest.

Soap tried to remember which pouch his own frag grenades were in, but it wasn't easy as bullets were slamming into his cover only a few inches away. _Which one was it..? The right or left...left!_

Finally, he managed to get one out of the bag, and he pulled the pin, waited two seconds, and threw it through a window. Several _booms _came from the machinegun nest. However, the RPDs started firing again 2 or 3 seconds after that.

"Bollocks." Price muttered. "Time to bring out the big guns. Hammer 2-4, we've got tangos on the second floor."

"Copy, engaging."

The Blackhawk hovered over Bravo Team. Soap admired the pilot's nerve for putting his aircraft right in front of the line of fire, and watched in awe as the helicopter's M134 minigun roared to life, drowning out the sound of the RPDs. After a 6-second burst, the minigun stopped.

"Bravo Six, Hammer is at bingo fuel. We're bugging out. Big Bird will be on station for evac in ten."

"Copy Hammer." replied Price. "Wallcroft, Griffin, cover our six. The rest of you, on me."

"Yes sir."

"Roger that."

* * *

Soap, Gaz, and Hopkins followed their Captain as he made his way over to a doorway. Gaz slung his C8 carbine over his shoulder and drew a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun and pumped it.

"I like to keep this for close encounters." He aimed at the door. Soap nodded in approval.

"Too right mate."

Price unscrewed the door. "On my mark...go!" He swung the door backwards, and Gaz stepped in, followed by Hopkins and Price.

"Check those corners!" ordered Price as he stepped through the door.

"Clear left."

"Clear right."

They moved down a set of stairs. Hopkins gestured to the right.

"Movement right."

There were 3 crew members at the end of a hallway, firing at the squad with AKMs. Soap dropped to one knee and took two of them out of double taps to the head. Hopkins killed the last one.

They ran down the hallway and turned left, stopping at a door leading onto a catwalk.

"Stack up." Hopkins positioned myself closest to the door, Soap second, and Gaz behind him. "Standby on my go."

Captain Price pulled out a flashbang. He pulled the pin, and tossed it into the next room. It detonated a second later.

"Go."

Hopkins and Soap headed inside and made short work of the blinded crewmen who were clutching their ears and eyes.

"Catwalk clear." Soap murmured into his microphone radio.

"Gotcha covered, move up."

Hopkins stayed on the catwalk, while Soap, Gaz and Price descended down the stairs. "Soap, take point."

"Roger that."

As Soap made his way through the maze of containers, he was suddenly startled by a yell. A man who had apparently been lying in ambush jumped out of a container with a Desert Eagle in his hands. The man had the advantage of surprise. However, the Desert Eagle was a bulky pistol and heavier than most handguns. In the time that he took to raise the pistol, Soap drove his knee between the man's legs. His eyes widened in surprise and he dropped the Desert Eagle. Soap's three-round burst from his MP5 into the head at point-blank range was the reason that the containers got a new and messy paint-job.

Gaz was right behind Soap, and winced when he saw the struggle and the resulting carnage. "Remind me not to mess with you, mate." Soap chuckled. "But since when do we knee our targets?"

Soap flushed. "Instinct, I suppose. He was pretty close."

Gaz clapped him on the shoulder and continued on. Soap followed him, but not before stuffing the Desert Eagle into a empty pouch. It wasn't often that one found a _Desert Eagle _on a combat operation. Soap supposed he might as well have a "souvenir" of his first mission. He followed the Lieutenant to where Price and Hopkins were standing by at a door.

* * *

"Ready sir."

Price kicked the door open, and Gaz ran in, shotgun ready.

"Clear left."

There only way forward was up some stairs to their left leading to another catwalk. Price and Hopkins took point.

"Movement right."

Security detail were on the other side of the cargo hold on a catwalk. They dashed towards their firing positions, but were cut down in a flurry of automatic fire.

"Move up!"

Two more crew-members took cover at the bottom and lifted their AKMs over the boxes, firing indiscriminately and spraying 7.62 all over the place. Soap scoffed. It was unlikely that they would hit anything at all that way. He tossed a frag behind the crates, and took care of the duo.

Gaz and Price ran over to a already-opened door. They nodded at each other, flashbangs in hand. "On three." They pulled the pins. "One, two, THREE!" Two flashbangs left their hands and exploded inside the last cargo hold. Gaz, being the lead man went in first, sending an blinded crewman sprawling with his Remington 870. Price put down two more with his C8 carbine with double taps to the chin and nose. Soap and Hopkins filed in. Bravo Team moved methodically through the cargo hold, taking down tangos with ease. After 2 minutes, the gunfire stopped.

* * *

"All clear." Gaz muttered. He took out the Geiger counter that he had packed earlier, and scanned the cargo hold. Suddenly, a click was heard, and increased as Gaz neared the far end of the cargo hold. The noise reached its peak as Gaz stopped outside a particularly large container. He called to his Captain. "Sir, you might want to take a look at this." Price walked over, followed by Soap and Hopkins. Gaz grabbed the handle and swung the door open.

"Bloody hell..." Soap swore as a distinctive sign caught his eye. It was yellow and black...

Nuclear material.

"Hmm...it's in Arabic." Price showed no obvious emotion at their discovery. "Big Bird, we've found the package. Get ready for pickup."

"Negative Bravo Six. Two fast movers closing in. Grab what you can and get your asses out of there. Out."

"Probably MiGs, we'd better go." sighed Gaz.

"Soap, grab the manifest in the container. Move."

Soap slipped into the container, snatched the clipboard on top, and stuffed it in his pocket. The squad started running back the way they had come.

"Wallcroft, Griffin what's your status?"

"Already in the helicopter sir! Enemy aircraft, inbound. SHIT! They've-"

* * *

The ship shook massively, throwing the team to the ground. Soap slid into a railing head-first, knocking him unconscious briefly.

"SHIT! What the hell happened?" yelled Hopkins. A sheet of flame spewed out from one of the containers.

"The ship's sinking! We need to get out of here NOW!" Gaz answered.

"Big Bird, this is Bravo Six, we're on your way out. Price pulled his gas mask off and glanced over at Soap, who had just regained consciousness. He sprinted over to the Trooper and pulled his mask off as well, and hauled him to his feet. "On your feet soldier! We are LEAVING!" Price made a break for the catwalks. Soap reorientated himself for a second and ran after him. The catwalks were slowly falling apart and Soap did not fancy dying here. Water burst through walls that were quickly becoming ceilings. The squad struggled to stay on their feet, and finally managed to get off the deathtraps that were the catwalks. They dashed through the ship, retracing their steps. Soap was running on pure adrenaline, the MP5SD hanging from its strap and bouncing againist his side painfully.

"WHICH WAY? WHICH WAY TO THE HELICOPTER?" yelled Hopkins.

"To the right, to the right!"

They burst out the last door onto the tilting deck. The chopper was nowhere in sight.

"WHERE THE HELL IS IT?" yelled Gaz. As if on cue, the SeaKnight swung beside the ship, ramp open. Soap was at the tail of the group, and he watched the rest of Bravo Team scramble on board. Just as he was about to climb on the ramp however, the ship leaned sideways even more, separating the deck and the ramp by about three meters.

"JUMP FOR IT!" Hopkins yelled.

Soap put one boot on the railing and propelled himself forward, hands outstretched. His chest slammed into the ramp, but he slowly started slipping backward.

"FUCK I'M SLIPPING! HELP!" Price dropped his Diemaco on the floor and grabbed Soap's hands and pulled him up. "Gotcha!"

"Big Bird, we're all aboard. Go!"

"Roger that, we're out of here."

Soap was hyperventilating. He couldn't believe that he had jumped that far and survived. Then, he remembered the clipboard. Soap fumbled in his pockets for the manifest, before giving it to Price. The Captain accepted it, patting Soap on the back.

"Exciting few minutes, aye?"

Soap could only nod wearily. He stared out at the dark waters outside, and watched as the cargo ship slipped beneath the waves.


	3. Prologue: The Coup

Disclaimer: I don't own Call of Duty, unless you count the legally bought PC copies of Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare and Call of Duty: World at War. I'm not making any money, I'm not Infinity Ward or Activision, etc, etc.

Review and tell me what you think!

* * *

**Somewhere in the Middle East**

President Yasir Al-Fulani huddled in the panic room of the Presidential Palace. His security detail stood over him, AKMs and Uzis pointed at both the primary entrance and the secondary exit. The forces of Al-Fulani's political rival, Kahled Al-Asad, had infested the surrounding city. They could hear the faint roar of helicopters overhead. Al-Fulani thought of his family. His wife. His two daughters. It was only a matter of time before Al-Asad's troops arrived at the palace. Al-Fulani knew that he would probably never see his wife and his children again, and he prayed for their safety.

Suddenly, they heard the faint screech of trucks outside the palace gates. The sound of helicopter blades grew closer until it was right above them, and stayed there. They heard the sound of doors bursting open and men yelling in Arabic. Luckily, the walls of the room they were in were made of steel, 3 inches thick. The room was practically bulletproof, and it wouldn't be easy to break in.

Of course, just because the walls were bulletproof didn't mean that they could withstand explosives.

The primary door exploded. A small projectile was flung into the room, which exploded a second later. A sheet of light as bright as the sun blinded everyone in the room, and a deafening bang caused them to clutch their ears in pain. Men poured into the room, firing automatic weapons at the disorientated bodyguards, who dropped one by one, unable to resist. It was organized chaos.

When the smoke cleared, there were armed men looming over Al-Fulani…but they weren't his bodyguards.

A rifle butt smashed into his gut. Al-Fulani clutched his stomach, bent over, and blacked out.

* * *

**Low Earth Orbit, Outer Space**

A U.S. military reconnaissance satellite turned it's sophisticated sensors towards a country in the Middle East. The headquarters in control of the satellite took over the cameras and directed it towards a city, then individual streets, and eventually a single car driving towards the Presidential Palace.

"Car is inbound."

"Continue tracking."

The car began to slow, and eventually stopped in front of the palace gates. Then, a door opened, and two men came out, both dragging none other than Al-Fulani.

* * *

Back at the palace, Al-Fulani was thrown into a recently arrived car. The radio was on and Al-Fulani was shocked to hear his rival, Al-Asad giving a speech.

"Today we rise again as one nation, in the face of betrayal and corruption!"

A man in a blue white-striped track suit turned around in the front passenger seat and looked Al-Fulani directly in the eye, Mini-Uzi in hand, before telling the driver to begin driving.

"We all trusted this man to deliver our great nation into a new era of prosperity. But like our monarchy before the Revolution, he has been colluding with the West with only self interest at heart!" Cheering has heard in the background. Outside, Al-Asad's troops were rounding up civilians and battling resistance fighters.

"Collusion breeds slavery! And we shall not be enslaved!"

A cell phone rang, and the man in the tracksuit answered it. He spoke for a few seconds in Russian, and twisted around to look at Al-Fulani.

"The time has come to show our true strength. They underestimate our resolve. Let us show that we do not fear them."

The man spoke a little longer, and hung up. Outside, armored personnel carriers were unloading troops into the streets.

"As one people we shall free our brethren from the yoke of foreign oppression!"

Al-Fulani was horrified to see resistance fighters being lined up against a wall and shot. Fighter jets screamed past over the ocean.

"Our armies are strong and our cause is just. As I speak, our armies are nearing their objectives, by which we will restore the independence of a once great nation."

The car pulled in beside a large public forum.

"Our noble crusade has begun."

Al-Fulani was dragged out of the car onto the ground, and felt a boot smash into his face, rendering him unconscious.

Al-Fulani felt himself being dragged again, and his vision went from back to blurry, and finally clear. A man with a grey suit and one arm missing inspected Al-Fulani, and then he was bought over to a bloody wooden post and tied to a handle.

"Just as they lay waste to our country, we will lay waste to theirs."

Al-Fulani looked up, and there was Al-Asad himself, speaking in front of a TV camera. He walked towards the man with one arm, who pointed a Desert Eagle at Al-Asad, before flipping it around and offering it to him by the grip. Al-Asad took the handgun and walked up to Al-Fulani, pointing the pistol straight at his head.

"This is how it begins."

Al-Asad pulled the trigger.


	4. Act 1: Blackout

Disclaimer: Call of Duty and it's affiliated characters do not belong to me.

Yay, I'm finally finished with this chapter! Please review! Constructive criticism is welcome. Flames will be dispatched with extreme predjudice.

* * *

**Credenhill, UK**

Soap, Gaz, and Price were in the briefing room once again. Gaz opened his laptop.

"Captain Price, Al-Asad just executed President AL-Fulani on national television." Price sighed and scratched his beard.

"The Americans have plans for Al-Asad. And it's too late to do anything for Al-Fulani. But in less than three hours, code-name Nikolai will be executed in Russia." A profile of a Russian man dressed in a brown shirt came up.

Gaz looked confused. "Nikolai sir?"

Price nodded. "Nikolai is our informant in the Ultranationalist camp. He supplied the intel on the cargo ship operation. Nikolai's in hell right now. We're gonna walk him out. We take care of our friends. We'll be operating with Russian loyalist forces led by Sergeant Kamarov in the area. Let's move."

* * *

**Caucasus Mountains, Russia**

Soap knelt in the wet, tall grass and scanned the area with a Diemaco C8 carbine. The three-man team of Price, Gaz, and Soap had been inserted 8 miles east by helicopter and had walked cross-country the rest of the way. In the distance, Soap could see faint steaks of smoke in the sky. Captain Price adjusted his boonie hat and tapped Soap and Gaz on the shoulder.

"The loyalists are expecting us half a click to the north. Move out."

Soap stood and followed the Captain. Gaz covered the rear. Every member of the team had suppressed C8 carbines equipped with red dot sights, PEQ-2 laser pointer, and a Heckler and Koch AG-C/GLM 40mm grenade launchers. A suppressed SIG Sauer P226 rested in Soap's holster. Gaz had also taken the SIG, while Price opted for a American M1911. In addition to his normal kit, Soap had a suppressed L115A1 bolt-action sniper rifle in a bag on his back.

"Loyalists, eh? So are those the good Russians or the bad Russians?" Gaz asked, somewhat rhetorically.

Price smirked. "Well, they won't shoot us on sight if that's what you're asking."

Gaz chuckled. "That's good enough for me, sir."

The team moved through the swamp, water sloshing against their boots, and soon stumbled on the first guard post in the area, which was a simple shack. It was only 50 meters away, and they decided that there was no need to use the sniper rifle-yet. There was one guard standing near the shack smoking, and another patrolling near a truck. Two more were inside the building watching TV. They could sneak around, but that would be risky. Captain Price made a decision.

"Soap, Gaz, take out the front guards. I'll deal with the ones in the hut."

"Roger that."

"Affirmative."

Soap and Gaz crept up to a large rock. "Soap, take the smoker near the building. I'll take care of the patrol." Gaz instructed.

"Got it Gaz." They took aim.

"On three. One. Two. Three."

Both guards collapsed to the ground with three 5.56mm bullets in each of their heads.

"Nice one mate." congratulated Gaz.

"You too Gaz."

Two more short suppressed bursts were heard, and Price came from around the building to regroup.

"Good work. There should be a few more guard posts up ahead. Kamarov will be waiting for us in a field to the northwest."

"Yes sir."

"Copy that."

They proceeded under a bridge, and saw two more huts in the distance. Like ghosts, they advanced on the huts. The sound of talking drifted from one of the buildings.

"Soap, plant a claymore in front of the doorway, then get their attention. The Captain and I will deal with the far house when the claymore goes off."

"Got it." Gaz handed a claymore to Soap and crept off after Price.

* * *

The M18A1 Claymore anti-personnel mine was a terrifying piece of work. When tripped, it shot out steel balls out to 100 meters in a 60 degree radius in front of the mine. While it was harmless to anyone who was standing behind it when it went off, the claymore was a death sentence to anyone in front of it. Recently, the Claymore had been updated with infrared trip-lasers. Soap smirked as he saw the writing on the front of the mine.

Front Toward Enemy.

Soap carefully placed the mine by the door and armed it. He retreated to a overturned car, and got a good look through the doorway into the house. Two men were playing chess, while another was sleeping by the door. Soap decided to take the sleeper. He leveled his C8 at the sleeper's head and counted to three. One. Two. Three.

_Puff._

The sleeper jerked and fell out of his chair. The chess players shouted and dashed out of the house.

_Click._

The claymore detonated, spraying steel balls into the two men who had just run out. They went down with numerous holes in their bodies. Yelling ensued from the other house. Three figures ran out to be cut down by suppressed gunfire.

"Area clear." Gaz muttered.

Soap went over to where Price and Gaz were. They checked their weapons and ammo.

"The Loyalists will meet us in the field behind the house over there." Price gestured. "Let's move."

* * *

The team proceeded through the house. Price opened the back door cautiously.

"Gaz. Smell that?"

"Yeah. Kamarov."

Price froze as a figure walked out of a thicket of trees holding an AKM with a GP-30 grenade launcher in the air. Price relaxed and stood as he recognized the man. They nodded at each other.

"Welcome to the new Russia, Captain Price." Kamarov was unshaven and was wearing a bearskin hat with a Soviet insignia. Like Price, Kamarov seemed to command respect, in a less friendly way.

Behind him, more figures rose from the ground and assembled. Spetsnaz.

Captain Price got down to business. "What's the target Kamarov? We've got an informant to recover."

"The Ultranationalists have BM21's on the other side of the hill. Their rockets have killed hundreds of civilians in the valley below." Kamarov replied. Kamarov noticed Soap. "Who's the new guy?"

"This is Soap." Gaz replied. "Just joined us yesterday from Selection." Kamarov merely nodded in acknowledgement.

He waved to his men to go up the hill behind them. As he was about to join them, Price grabbed his shoulder.

"Not so fast, Remember Beirut? You're with us." Beside him, Gaz smirked.

Kamarov looked slightly deflated. "Hm, I guess I owe you one."

"Bloody right you do." muttered Gaz. They followed Kamarov up the hill.

"This way. There's a good spot were your sniper can cover my men." Bravo Team followed the Russian Sergeant. The rest of the Spetznaz went off in another direction.

Bravo Team and Kamarov reached a path overlooking a village. Down below, rockets were steaking into the sky from trucks with rocket tubes on the back.

"Sniper team in position. Gaz, cover the left flank."

"Roger."

Soap set his C8 carbine down, and took the L115A1 out of his bag. He propped it up on a fence, and scanned the village. He tapped Captain Price on the shoulder.

"Sir, can you spot for me?"

"Not a problem, Soap." Price took the spotter's scope from the bag and set it up besides Soap.

There were Ultranationalists on patrol, but they seemed to be rather bored and unconcerned. That was about to change.

Soap choose his target, a rather pudgy man in a beret leaning against a wall and smoking. Soap mentally calculated distance and other factors that would affect the shot, like wind and temperature. The village was rather close to their position, so they would have some relatively easy shots. Kamarov gave the order.

"All units, commence the attack."

* * *

Milliseconds later, Soap depressed the trigger. The man dropped like a stone. A man right next to him yelled and received a .338 Lapua Magnum bullet in the head for his troubles.

"Soap, three-man patrol, 200 meters, near a green car."

"Got it."

Soap shifted his attention to the group that was running towards a house. Soap dropped them one by one, his hand furiously working the bolt.

"MacMillan would be impressed..." murmured the Captain with a distant look in his eye.

Soap wondered who he was talking about, but shrugged and decided to ask later. He felt a tap on his shoulder and realized it was Kamarov. "My men are taking heavy fire from those machine gunners in that one-story building over there!" Soap followed his gaze to a window with two RPK machine guns firing at the Spetznaz on fully-automatic. One of the Spetznaz was hit in the leg and collapsed on the spot. A nearby comrade fired a few bursts at the gunners while dragging his friend to safety behind a low wall. "Take them out!"

"On it..." Soap quickly adjusted his aim, and one of the machine gunners went down immediately. However, the other was obscured by the wall, due to the angle Soap was at. He thought quickly, and put three rounds through the wall. The machine gun ceased firing. Afterwards, Soap reloaded his rifle.

* * *

"Bloody good job Soap!" Price remarked. Soap grinned, and took out several more targets before he heard a thud-thud-thud. Two Mi-8 helicopters roared over the village. The first one stopped over the village. Ropes fell out the back, and several men rappelled down. Soap took out several of them as they landed. The second headed towards a field beyond a burning house at the end of the path the four men were on.

Price was annoyed. "You didn't say there would be helicopters Kamarov..."

"Well, I didn't say there wouldn't be any either! We have to protect my men from those helicopter troops. This way!"

"Make it quick, Kamarov. I want that informant."

"You have nothing to worry about. We'll take out the BM-21s and carve a path straight to your informant Captain Price."

Gaz growled. "This had better not become a routine..."

Price sighed. "Forget it Gaz. Let's follow him."

Bravo Team dashed after Kamarov, who was already inside the burning structure. They hurried after him, lest the building collapse while they were still inside. Gaz was muttering obscenities to himself.

"We should just beat it out of him sir." Gaz did not try to hide his opinion of the situation. Soap was starting to agree with Gaz, but thought that Price would disagree. The Captain merely adjusted his boonie hat and replied:

"Not yet."

As they exited the burning house (much to their relief), the second helicopter soared over their heads, having dropped off its troops. Soap could hear Kamarov's AKM clattering and few meters away.

"Contact. Enemy helicopter troops closing fast." Soap muttered into his radio.

"Copy, I have a visual." Price responded. "Squad, switch to your grenade launchers."

Soap crouched behind a log and flicked the safety off on his AGC/GLM and aimed down the grenade launcher's sights. He pulled the trigger and watched as the grenade impacted, sending two men flying. Soap winced and ducked back behind the log and unhinged the barrel, slid a fresh grenade in, and slammed the barrel shut. Rounds impacted into the log he was hiding behind, sending wooden splinters flying in Soap's direction. He rose up and began firing with his C8, killing a man firing an AKM in Gaz's direction, who was hiding in a nearby wooden building. Two more men were hiding behind a destroyed car. Soap fired off another grenade and neutralized the two tangos. Sergeant Kamarov stood up and ran over to the side of the cliff.

"Captain Price! My men have run into heavy resistance! Help me support them from the cliffs!"

Captain Price frowned. "What about our informant? He's running out of time!"

Kamarov looked at him pleadingly. "Then help us! The further my men can get into this village, the closer we will be to securing your informant!"

Gaz narrowed his eyes. "I've just about had enough of this shite..."

Price sighed. "Don't worry Gaz. We'll deal with it. Soon."

Gaz said nothing, but Soap could tell he was pissed. They knew that Kamarov was using them to further his own objectives. He held no regard for Nikolai's safety. Soap went over to the cliffside and started laying down fire with his C8. A BMP trudged into view, firing its main cannon. Soap noticed a house with the roof blown off below their position where snipers were firing with SDV Dragunov sniper rifles from the second floor. He fired a 40mm grenade into their midst, taking them all out. Kamarov seemed satisfied, and got up again.

* * *

"Good! Now we are making progress! Follow me to the power station." Kamarov ran off towards the power station on the hilltop without looking to see if Bravo Team was following him. Gaz was breathing heavily and clutching his weapon in a death-grip. Captain Price went over and put his hand on Gaz's shoulder. The simple gesture calmed Gaz down a little, and the team followed Kamarov up the hill and into the power complex. The Russian stopped in front of a concrete wall sitting at the edge of the cliff to prevent people from falling. A good thing too, since the bottom of the cliff was about 40 meters down. No one who fell that far could expect to walk away from the impact.

Kamarov was peering through his binoculars at the village below. "Look. The final assault has already begun. With a little more of your sniper support, we are sure to be victorious. Captain Price-"

He never got to finish his sentence. At a discrete nod from Price, Gaz slung his weapon, walked up to Kamarov, and slammed him into the concrete wall, knocking the wind out of him.

Gaz began to question Kamarov. "Where is the informant?" Kamarov yelled something in Russian and tried to break free, but to no avail. Gaz was a little more forceful the next time. "WHERE IS HE?"

Kamarov's binoculars fell 40 meters to the ground below and shattered. Realizing that he had no other choice, the Russian gave in. "The house!...The house on the northeastern side of the village!", he spluttered.

Gaz seemed to be satisfied. "Well, that wasn't so hard was it? Now go sit in the corner."

Captain Price took control. "Soap, Gaz, we've got to secure the informant before anything happens. Let's move!" They took out their rappelling clips and attached them to ropes that the Spetznaz had used earlier to flank the Ultranationalists in the village. Soap glanced back at Kamarov, who had seemed to have passed out. With that, he clambered over the concrete wall and slid down the rope, bouncing off the cliffside. Soap quickly unbuckled himself and scanned the area with his C8. He heard a soft _thump _next to him. Gaz unhooked himself from the rope and reloaded his carbine. Soap looked up to see Price halfway down the rope. A few moments later, he was also on the ground.

* * *

Gaz finished reloading and tapped Soap on the shoulder. "Come on Soap, let's go." Bravo Team ran across a field a vaulted over a wall into the village, where the battle between the Spetznaz and the Ultranationalists was in full swing. Soap winced as several 7.62 rounds impacted into a enemy machine gunner's head, sending blood and brains all over the wall behind him. Soap took the L115A1 out of its bag again and started acquiring targets. He took aim at a sniper in a 2-story window who was sticking his Dragunov out of the window, instantly giving his position away. He was also firing rapidly and not taking his time at all. Soap made his calculations and adjustments, and fired. The bullet hit the sniper in the chest, who tumbled backwards. He nodded in satisfaction to himself, before his eye was caught by movement in the corner of his scope.

Soap swiveled the rifle while chambering another round to see a group of soldiers charging from a nearby house, firing AKMs and G3s from the hip and spraying lead all over the place. Soap fired his first shot and cursed when the target moved his head at the exact instant that he had fired, resulting in a near miss. Soap worked the bolt as quickly as possible, and managed to nail his target on the second try. Soap's next shot managed to kill two tangos at once when one of them ran out in front of Soap's target just as he fired. Soap raised his eyebrows in surprise, and reloaded.

By then, the Loyalists were already in control of most of the village. Soap hastily put the sniper rifle back in the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and picked up his C8. Where were Captain Price and Gaz? At that moment, Soap's radio crackled to life.

"Soap, we're at the base of the hill on which the house Nikolai is in. Get over here ASAP."

"Yes sir, I'm on my way."

Soap darted through the houses and found Price and Gaz waiting at the base of a hill. The team sprinted towards the house where Kamarov had said Nikolai was being held. As Bravo Team neared the house, Gaz went around to the back to cut the power. Soap and Price stacked up by the front door. The gunfire from the village below stopped. Apparently the Spetznaz were now in control. The night was all of a sudden eerily silent. Price flipped his night vision goggles over his eyes and muttered into his radio.

"Gaz, do it."

* * *

Soap imitated his Captain and equipped his NVGs. The world before him was now tinted green. Seconds later, the lamp above the front door flickered off. Price reached for the doorknob as the Ultranationalists inside gave out startled yells. The front door swung open and Price stepped inside with his carbine up, closely followed by Soap. They froze as they heard someone whispering in Russian. Soap and Price turned to see a dark silhouette reaching for the light switch an another room. Soap looked at Price, who nodded at him. Soap let his C8 hang by its sling, and unsheathed his combat knife. Soap walked up to the man and slammed his knife into his chest while covering his mouth so he couldn't yell for help. After a brief struggle, the man stopped moving. Soap gently laid the body on the floor. He heard a thud and turned to see that Price had dropped another tango.

"These night-vision goggles make it too easy..." Price muttered.

"Got that right."

Price nodded. "Soap, take point. Up the stairs."

Soap nodded in the affirmative and took point. As he reached the top of the stairs, he saw a man in a corner, holding an M9 and aiming it all over the place frantically. Soap put a single bullet in his head. The creak of a floorboard outside a window caused Soap to snap his focus to a window outside. He found himself looking down his sights at Gaz, who had done the same. Soap nodded to him, and Gaz gave him a thumbs-up. As the Trooper was about to proceed through the room, his eye was caught by what looked like a metal rod sticking out from behind a overturned table. On closer inspection, it turned out to be the barrel of an AKM. Soap put a 5-round burst across the table, and caught a brief glimpse of a man's hand as it collapsed to the floor. Unfortunately, the fingers depressed the trigger, spraying bullets all over the room, mercifully missing Soap. However, their cover was blown.

A figure burst through a door on the opposite end, firing a pistol blindly and shouting. Soap dispatched him by removing half his head with a burst from his C8. Soap advanced cautiously towards the doorway. Sudden, his NVGs flooded with light as a man stepped out with a flashlight. Soap yelled and tried to pull the googles away from his eyes. He crumpled to the floor.

Suddenly, Soap heard a gentle _puff puff puff_. The world became green again and Soap felt something soft crash into him. Moments later, the object was dragged off of his body. Soap blinked and looked up to see Captain Price with his hand outstretched. Soap gratefully accepted the hand and climbed to his feet. Moments later, a door opened and Gaz stepped inside.

Price stepped into the room where the man with the flashlight had emerged from. Secondslater, he slung his C8 carbine and darted over to a corner of the room. Soap and Gaz followed him and saw a emaciated man lying in a corner, illuminated by the flashlight that had blinded Soap earlier. He was wearing a tattered brown shirt and was seemingly unconscious.

It seemed that they had finally found Nikolai.

Price checked for any serious injuries, and when he found none, he raised his hand and slapped the man back into consciousness.

"Wha..."

"Nikolai? It's Price. John Price."

"What...? Oh! John Price from the SAS?"

"That's right Nikolai. We've got warm food and beds back at base. You're safe now."

Nikolai smiled faintly and sighed with relief now that his ordeal was over. Gaz handed Nikolai an AK-74u carbine along with a few magazines. The group proceeded out of the house. The SAS slipped their night vision goggles into their pouches as they stepped out the doorway. Price contacted their helicopter.

"Big Bird this is Bravo Six. We have the package. Meet us at LZ one. Over."

An American accented voice replied moments later over the sound of the helicopter. "Bravo Six this is Big Bird. We're on our way. Out."

* * *

They ran towards the LZ in the fields surrounding the house. An American Blackhawk helicopter soared into view from behind the hills and slowly descended. Another SAS operative was in the chopper, scanning for threats with a MP5. Once the chopper was settled, Captain Price climbed into one of the seats. Soap helped Nikolai into his seat and got in himself. Gaz bought up the rear. As soon as everyone was on board, the chopper lifted off.

Nikolai looked perplexed, as if he was trying to remember something. Suddenly, he turned to Price with some urgency. "Have the Americans already attacked Al-Asad?"

Price looked at him questioningly. "No, their invasion begins in a few hours. Why?"

Nikolai became visibly worried. Shaking his head, he replied, "The Americans are making a mistake. They will never take Al-Asad alive."


	5. Act 1: Charlie Don't Surf

Disclaimer: I still don't own Call of Duty. If I did, Modern Warfare 2's multiplayer wouldn't be so unbalanced sometimes. Oh, and the perk Commando wouldn't exist.

A/N: Up next, The Bog! Please review and tell me what you think! (Reviews really help a author's morale, you know? Especially an amateur like me...Seriously, 2 reviews for 5 chapters? Ok... I'm not an author who is going to hold chapters hostage for reviews, but _come on..._) Don't worry about if I'm going to finish this story or not. I shall continue typing until my last breath! *gestures randomly*

* * *

**Unknown Country, Somewhere in the Middle East**

Sergeant Paul Jackson of the First Marine Force Recon narrowed his eyes and stared out at the clear, sparkling ocean below the UH-60 Blackhawk he was riding in along with the rest of his squad. Their chopper was in the middle of a formation along with 14 other Blackhawks, all headed for the city were Al-Asad was rumored to be in hiding. The Marines had been waiting in ships stationed in the Persian Gulf on high alert. The execution of President Al-Fulani on national television had created quite a stir in the region. Mere hours after the execution, the Marines had been given the order to invade the small country. News of the invasion had spread quickly. If Al-Asad was still in the city, he would be wise to get his ass out of there as fast as humanly possible.

Jackson gripped his M4A1 carbine. Although normally the Marines would be using the M16A4, the majority squad had been outfitted with the M4 carbine for this operation, which was more suited for the CQB-type combat they would encounter. A few Marines carried Mossberg 500 shotguns that they would be using for breaching. A few more lugged around M249 Squad Automatic Weapons. Their sidearms were Beretta M9 pistols, standard-issue for nearly all elements of the U.S. military. The only man in the squad that carried an M16A4 was their leader, Lieutenant Vasquez. He was affectionately referred to by his men as "The Bear" for his bulk and strength. Currently, he was on his radio, receiving his final orders before the actual mission began. He muttered something into the earpiece and turned to the men in the chopper. "Marines! Spotters have a possible fix on Al-Asad in a building at the west end of this town.", he yelled over the clatter of the Blackhawk's rotor blades. "We're gonna secure the perimeter and grab Al-Asad. Oorah?"

"OORAH!" the Devil Dogs boomed.

Vasquez nodded. "Lock and load!" The chopper filled with the sounds of weapons being cocked and checked. Jackson pulled the charging handle back on his M4, and assured that the Tasco Red Dot Sight was properly zeroed. Satisfied, he laid his carbine on his lap and checked the rest of his equipment. 10 extra M4 magazines lay in a pouch strapped to his vest within easy reach. 4 magazines for his Beretta laid beside the holstered handgun. 4 M67 fragmentation grenades were clipped to his vest along with 4 flashbang grenades to quickly incapacitate their opponents in tight quarters. The Sergeant felt for his water bottles and his rations. He glanced out the doorway of the Blackhawk and noticed a oil rig in the distance. They were getting close to the target. Jackson took a swig from one of his water bottles and closed his eyes at the sensation of cool liquid rushing down his throat. He put the bottle away and leaned back against the seat, idlely reflecting on how all the Blackhawks flying in formation reminded him of the war flim _Apocalypse Now_. The only real differences were the newer Blackhawks and the humid climate of Vietnam being replaced by the scorching heat of the Arabian sun.

The Sergeant was shaken out of his musings as something whizzed by uncomfortably close to the helicopter he was in, followed by a trail of smoke. Jackson leaned out the side of the chopper and saw the docks in the distance. More RPGs screamed by, some narrowly missing the choppers in the formation. Jackson could hear the pilots chattering over the radio abouts RPGs and approaching the objective. Approximately a quarter-mile ahead of the formation, Marine AH-1Z "Viper" attack helicopters spearheaded the aerial assault, blasting away at targets with 20mm chainguns and 70mm unguided rockets. The AH-1Z was the latest model of the infamous AH-1 "Cobra" series of helicopter gunships, and Jackson knew that the enemy should be scared shitless.

The docks came into view, and small-arms fire joined the RPGs as the choppers soared over the buildings. _Now it was looking like Blackhawk Down_, the Sergeant thought. Hopefully the operation would have more success than that. Jackson shuddered at the thought of one of the birds going down, flames spewing from it's tail, the men inside unable to do anything other than to hang on and pray...

Jackson mentally slapped himself. _This is no time for gloomy thoughts, Jackson! Get a hold of your self! _However, Jackson would have liked to get off the chopper and onto the streets as soon as possible, where his life was in his own hands and not some nutjob pilot's. His wishes were granted as he saw the Blackhawk next to him flare and begin to slow to a hover, dropping ropes down from its belly. Their own chopper slowed to a halt. Private McCoy was sitting closest to the door, and as soon as the Blackhawk was stable, he pushed the rope onto the cracked, scorched street below.

"Go go go!" urged Vasquez. McCoy was down the rope moments later. Jackson made sure that his fast-roping gloves were on and grabbed the rope, stepping off the chopper and letting the rope carry him to the ground. Seconds later, his boots hit the ground. Instinctively, the Sergeant dropped to one knee and bought up his M4, scanning for targets. He could see other Blackhawks hovering the skies above, and then McCoy was in front of him, running towards a nearby alleyway. Jackson got to his feet and jogged after him. Nearby, a few Marines from Third Squad lugged a coil of barbed wire across the street to form one of the blocking positions.

"Move it! Move it! Set up the blocking positions, let's go!" barked a Marine as he ran past. Jackson double-timed it as he jogged behind McCoy towards the target building. As he rounded a corner, the objective building towered into view. It was about 5 stories tall. Second Squad was supposed to clear the basement while First Squad would clear the upper levels. Jackson looked over his shoulder and saw Lieutenant Vasquez right behind him, M16A4 with M203 40mm grenade launcher up and scanning for threat and a Mossberg 500 with the stock removed bouncing on his back. Jackson turned back around to see that McCoy was already besides the door, waiting anxiously for Jackson and Vasquez to catch up. A little further off, more Marines whom Jackson identified as elements of First Squad swarmed towards the building.

Vasquez quickly lined up in front of McCoy, and Jackson turned to face the street in order to cover them. McCoy walked around to the door and removed a breaching charge from his vest and slung it over the doorknob. He tilted his head toward the Lieutenant as if asking for reassurance. Vasquez nodded and extended his hand to pat him on the back. McCoy resumed his position behind Vasquez with a detonator in hand.

* * *

"Blow the charge!" Vasquez's voice rumbled. Seconds later, the door was blown inwards from the force of the explosion, sending splinters everywhere. "Breaching breaching!" he cried as he rushed into the room followed by McCoy. Several bursts, and then silence. Jackson advanced cautiously through the doorway to see Vasquez and McCoy standing by a door to the right, which led to a flight of stairs going down. Two corpses, enemy militia, lay on the floor with blood spread out on the wall behind them. One of them had half of his head missing, Jackson noted with a wince.

"Jackson, take point." Vasquez whispered while reloading his rifle.

"Oorah." The Marine descended the stairs slowly. Another doorway was directly left as Jackson reached the foot of the stairs. He craned his neck carefully around the corner, and scanned the room. There were numerous wooden crates scattered around, and Jackson could see a man loading his AKM next to a table. A television sat on a nearby table, broadcasting some sort of speech. Jackson withdrew his head to find that Vasquez and McCoy were right behind him.

"Jackson, what do you have?" Vasquez inquired.

"Sir, I've got eyes on one tango on the opposite side of the room from us. I can't see the rest of the room, but I'm sure that there are more tangos further in."

"Roger that." Vasquez brushed some dust off his massive shoulders. "Get a flashbang in there and we'll clear the room."

"Copy that." Jackson let his M4 hang from its strap and removed one of the distraction devices from his vest. He pulled the pin, counted to three, ad flung the flashbang into the room where it hit a wall and exploded. As the room filled with a deafening boom and and blinding flash, Jackson grabbed his M4 and rushed into the room. The man with the AKM was kneeling over and clutching his ears in pain. He didn't suffer for very long as Jackson put a double-tap into his neck. A few men burst through a door on the left, but before Jackson could shift his aim, they fell to the floor with stitches in their chests. Nodding to Vasquez, Jackson turned right and put down a tango at the far end of the room who was frantically trying to load a M1014 shotgun.

The room had several tables lined up in a row from one end of the room to another, and on the tables were massive quantities of weapons, equipment, and ammunition. There were SDV Dragunovs, AKMs, Mossberg 500s, RPGs, grenades, and even some anti-tank mines. At the end of the room, Jackson could hear whispers and weapons being loaded and cocked. Silently as possible, the three Marines made their way over to the door. McCoy peeked around the corner and ducked back quickly as one of the tangos saw him. Jackson could hear them scurrying behind the crates for cover and muttering in Arabic.

Jackson stuck his head through the doorway and was almost killed when a militia lifted an AKM over the crates and started blindfiring. Cursing, Jackson decided to flush them out. He unfastened a fragmentation grenade from his vest. The pin was out, and Jackson waited for a second before propelling it into the room where it landed behind the crates. A second later, it detonated, sending deadly shrapnel flying. Jackson heard screams, and knew that the grenade had done its job. The Devil Dogs cautiously fanned out into the room, wary for any ambushes. However, it seemed that resistance in the basement had been taken care of.

* * *

Vasquez radioed the other two squads. "All callsigns, check the bodies. We need a positive ID on Al-Asad."

Jackson inspected the nearest corpse. The man had a red beret just like Al-Asad's, but he was a little too short and seemed to be too young anyway. Reports from the Marines above them slowly filtered in.

"Negative ID over here sir."

"No sign of Al-Asad sir!"

"Building is secure. No sign of target."

Vasquez frowned. "Damn it." He muttered, and kicked a nearby body. He radioed Command to inform them of the development. "HQ, this is Red Dog. Building is secure but we don't have Al-Asad, over." A response came over the radio. "Roger that, HQ. Out." He turned to Jackson and McCoy. "Heads up! I just got word Al-Asad is broadcasting half a click east of here at a TV station. We're gonna move out on foot and take down the package there. Move out!"

* * *

"Oorah!" Jackson and McCoy replied. Various affirmatives came over Vasquez's radio. Jackson and McCoy followed their leader as they retraced their steps back outside. They were joined by Privates Massey, West, and Lopez, and Sergeants Cowen, Higgins, and White from Charlie Squad.

The Marines twisted and turned through the alleyways, soon reaching one of the blocking positions. However, half of the coil of barbed wire was gone, apparently blasted away. Two dead Marines lay behind a burned-out car. Three men, Private Grey, Corporal Blake, and Sergeant Wilard were crouched behind some barrels, desperately firing at a few tangos on a second-floor terrace about 50 meters away. Vasquez dashed over to their position. "Sergeant, give me a sitrep! What happened?"

"We were holding this position.." replied Wilard in between coughs and hyperventilation. "They came from up high..." he gestured to the terrace, "fired an RPG, and got Adams and Hughes." He indicated the corpses.

Vasquez nodded. "Alright, this is the plan. Al-Asad is in a TV station east of here. Second Squad is going to converge on the building and hopefully get Al-Asad. You guys hold this position. Armor support should be arriving soon, ETA 15 mikes."

"Roger that. But what about the guys up there?"

Vasquez glanced at the elevated platform and ducked back down as a man sprayed 7.62 over their cover. As the bullets thudded into the ground behind them, Vasquez flicked the safety off on his M203 grenade launcher. The moment the fire paused, Vasquez stood up and fired a 40mm grenade straight onto the terrace. Screams came from the vicinity of the explosion. One poor man was flung 14 feet into the air and landed with an audible _crunch_ on the street.

Vasquez and Jackson peeked cautiously over the barrels and scanned their surroundings. They couldn't see any threats, so the squad stood and advanced cautiously out from cover, leaving First Squad at their position. Overhead, the clear blue skies were sporadically dotted with Vipers and Blackhawks providing close air support to the Marines in the city. Slightly higher up, Marine AV-8B Harriers screamed on by towards their targets.

As the Marines fanned out across the street, a faint whine was heard, growing louder every second. It was closing fast, and sounded like a vehicle motor. Every man dove to the ground as a pickup truck with a M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the rear crashed through a market stand and barreled straight towards them. Unfortunately, Cowen didn't react quickly enough and one of the massive bullets hit him in the chest, knocking him back a few feet and killing him instantly.

The pickup zoomed past and skidded as it turned around, intending to make another run on the Marines. The Browning spat out projectiles nearly half an inch long, lacing holes uncomfortably close to the men's heads. However, this time the Marines were ready. As the truck was in the middle of its turn, Private Massey yelled at the other Marines to stand clear and stood with an AT4 anti-tank weapon. As soon as the truck had turned completely, the Private pulled the trigger. Jackson watched as the rocket streaked towards the vehicle and its unfortunate occupants. The backblast from the tube was enormous and blasted a few crates behind the Private into the air, which landed a few meters away. In the truck, the driver's expression took upon one of horror as the rocket flew straight towards him. The explosion was enormous, turning the pickup onto its side and into a building. There was a series of smaller explosions as the ammunition cooked off. The machine gun was twisted and mangled so badly that it was completely inoperable. The rest of the vehicle didn't look much better.

The squad got back to its feet, all of them feeling lucky to be alive. Massey dropped the now-useless tube. "Good shot man." said Jackson. Massey could only nod as if he was in a daze.

Jackson clapped him on the back and took a swig from his water bottle. The cool liquid gushing down his throat was a godsend in the intense glare of the sun in the midst of battle. It was important to stay hydrated, especially when the adrenaline was pumping. The body could lose a lot of water in an hour in these conditions.

Vasquez's deep voice rumbled over the radio. "I have eyes on the TV station." he said, pointing towards a rather large, modern-looking structure in the distance. They were pretty close to the objective, but they would have to move through the ruins of some houses to get to it, and there would most likely still be resistance on the way. Vasquez brushed some dirt off his shoulder and reloaded his assault rifle, dropping the half-full magazine into a pouch on his leg and slamming a fresh magazine into place. "Ammo check.", he looked at the other Marines. "How are we doing for munitions?"

The squad checked off their ammo stats. Jackson, McCoy, and White were a little low on magazines for their M4s. Jackson glanced around, and his eyes were caught at the ghastly sight of Cowen's corpse lying in the dirt, eyes wide and mouth slightly open in a expression of surprise. The bullet had penetrated through his arteries and his heart, causing an instant and rather painless death. Jackson cursed and gently removed the M4 from the young Marine's grasp. The magazine was removed, and Jackson searched the corpse's vest for extras, which he found 4 of. He pocketed one of the magazines, and handed the rest to McCoy and White, both of whom had somber expressions on their faces as well. Jackson knelt and closed Cowen's eyes forever. McCoy muttered a prayer, and the squad moved on.

* * *

The squad proceeded into the streets that weaved through the burning ruins of the residential areas surrounding the TV station, navigating by GPS. Jackson had taken the point. He was walking along a low wall about 4 feet high when a figure in a 3-story window to his right about rose up and leveled a Dragunov at Jackson's head. He fired half a second later, and Jackson would have been killed if Vasquez, who was right behind him, hadn't grabbed the back of his vest and pushed him to the ground behind cover. The shot slammed into the dirt where Jackson had been just a second earlier. The rest of the squad dove behind the wall as well.

Vasquez raised his head slightly above the wall to assess the situation and quickly dove back as two RPK light machine guns opened fire on their position, pinning them down beneath a hail of lead. The clatter of at least 4 AKMs and several G3s joined them. The militia fire was too intense for the Marines to handle the enemy position themselves. Vasquez decided bring out the big guns. He turned towards his earpiece. "Hornet 1-6, this is Red Dog. We have enemy machine gun and sniper fire approximately 25 meters east of our position. Requesting fire support, danger close!"

A voice as cool as the smoke off of dry ice answered. "Roger that. Red Dog. Can you mark your exact location, over?"

Vasquez turned to Lopez and told him to pop smoke to indicate their position. The Private nodded and tugged one of the devices out from his vest. He pulled the pin and dropped the smoke grenade at his feet. After a brief pause, red smoke began to pour out, quickly obscuring the area. It had the added benefit of obscuring the view of the fire coming from their right. The fire paused.

"Red Dog, this is Hornet 1-6. We have a fix on your position. Standby."

The tangos fired blindly into the smoke, hoping to score some lucky shots. They managed to sustain their fire for about 4 seconds when the much louder and authoritative roar of a M197 20mm Gatling Gun drowned them out. The Cobra hovered low, spraying a frighteningly accurate wall of lead downrange. A crescendo of 70mm rockets joined in. The enemy position was completely obliterated. Several sandbags toppled to the ground.

"Hornet 1-6, all targets destroyed. We're bugging out." came the pilot's calm, collected voice.

"Copy that, 1-6. Thanks for the assist. Out." rumbled Vasquez's deeper, more matured voice. The gunship flew off towards the coast to rearm and refuel back at the fleet. Vasquez stood. "Let's go."

* * *

The squad followed their leader as he walked past the still-burning ruins of the enemy crow's nest. Jackson thought briefly of his friend, Staff Sergeant Griggs. He was somewhere in the city, and wound also be storming the TV station, albeit a different sections of the building.

A yell distracted Jackson from his thoughts. Turning slightly to his left, where the sound had originated, he saw two Marines in a parking lot waving frantically in their direction. The TV station loomed behind them. Jackson turned to Vasquez to alert him, but the Lieutenant was already halfway across the street. Vasquez crouched next to one of the Marines. "We've got the TV station locked down and surrounded sir." the Marine reported.

"Good. Get in position to breach." Vasquez ordered.

The squad followed the two Marines to a small door and lined up in their positions. Once again, McCoy hung the breaching charge on the doorknob and stepped back.

"Do it."

McCoy pressed the detonator.

The door collapsed into the room as Vasquez and McCoy charged in, killing a few guards in a spray of pink mist and flesh. The remainder of the squad filed in, gingerly stepped over the fresh corpses. Vasquez gestured to the door. "Higgens, take point."

"Oorah." The Marines weaved through the various living quarters and kitchens without encountering anyone. Jackson was beginning to feel uneasy. _Where was the enemy? It was too quiet._ They stepped into a room which seemed to be a the main studio.

"RPG!"

"Ambush!"

Jackson heard a fwoosh and saw a projectile with a corkscrewing smoke trail spewing out behind it headed straight for him. _SHIT!_ his brain screamed. He dropped to the floor and curled into as tight of a ball as he could. _Fuck fuck fuck!_

To Jackson, it seemed that Fate had intervened as the rocket spiraled away at the last second and exploded harmlessly in a nearby cubical. Jackson had little to be thankful however, as figures on second-floor walkways opened fire with AKMs. Doors on ground level burst open and more militia poured in, shooting wildly. The Marines returned fire and slowly advanced using a simple strategy. They divided into two groups. One would creep forward while the other provided covering fire. Then they would reverse roles and repeat the process.

Jackson lobbed a grenade into a cubical where several tangos were blind-firing. The fire from that section ceased almost immediately after the explosion, Jackson noted with a slight smirk. He gathered his M4 and began to move forward under the exchange of Kalashnikov and Western assault rifles. Jackson reached his intended spot and killed a tango up on the balcony who had been reloading his RPG.

A primal scream made Jackson turn around. A tango charged at him with an AKM, intending to hit him on the head. Instinctively, Jackson rolled out of the way. The man looked confused for a second, and a second was all it took for Jackson to unsheath his combat knife and plunge it into his opponent's vital organs. He drew his pistol and fired twice. The man stopped struggling. Wincing at his blood-stained knife, Jackson turned his attention back to the firefight.

Gradually, the fire began to slack off. The militia were simply outclassed by the Devil Dogs. Deadly professionals against untrained amateurs. It wasn't long before the only people left alive in the room all wore Marine uniforms. Amazingly, everyone not militia was practically unscathed, although Jackson had a few rounds buried in his vest. Luckily, there was no penetration. Jackson fingered the small holes and reloaded his carbine.

* * *

"Room clear! Move up! Al-Asad should be on the second floor." the reassuring voice of his Lieutenant instructed. Jackson blinked and followed him to a service door. As they filed through the doorway into a brightly lit large open hall with a giant planes of glass providing excellent visibility to the streets beyond. Jackson felt the ground tremor beneath his feet and noticed shadows flickering on the floor. He turned to look and saw Marine M1A2 Abrams tanks storming by on a road adjacent to the TV station, pushing and rolling over cars that were unfortunate enough to be in their way.

"Yeah! There goes our boys!" West yelled.

"Oorah." Jackson murmured, struck by the sheer raw _power_ of the armored vehicles.

Just then, a new and _very_ familiar voice came to life in Jackson's headset. "Hold your fire! Friendlies coming out!"

A door on the opposite end of the hallway swung open, and Staff Sergeant Andrew Griggs stepped out with an M249 SAW in hand. Two other Marines followed him out. Upon seeing Vasquez he shook his head. "No sign of Al-Asad sir." he reported.

"Alright. Fall in Marines. Stay frosty."

As Griggs was about to blend in with the rest of the squad, he noticed Jackson, who grinned as they made eye contact. "Hey Paul." said the tall African-American Sergeant with a playful punch on Jackson's shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"Doing fine, brother." Jackson flicked Grigg's helmet, and the two of them shared a chuckle. "You watch my six, oorah?"

"Oorah."

The squad ascended a flight of stairs that was adjacent to the newly-opened door. They moved through a few more small rooms and emerged on the roof. From his vantage point, Jackson could see a large portion of the city. Large satellite dishes were scattered on the roof, and a structure with a single door as a point of entry dominated the rooftop. Intel had determined that the broadcast should be transmitting from that room. The squad assumed their breaching positions next to the entrance. Jackson could catch a few strains of a man speaking into a microphone.

"I think he's in there. I hear him." Griggs whispered.

"Do it."

A Marine stepped up to the door carrying a Mossberg 500 shotgun in preparation to breach. Jackson followed him and positioned to rush into the room the moment the door was down. The Marine fired a shell into the door's hinges, shattering the mechanism. Another shell broke the last hinge. Jackson kicked the door inwards and it slammed into the carpet. He ran into the room, M4A1 scanning for threats.

The room was empty.

"CLEAR!" Jackson yelled.

"Room clear!"

Something was wrong. Jackson noticed a TV in the center of the room, blaring out the same words he'd heard just a minute ago. He narrowed his eyes to slits as he realized what was happening. "It's on a loop. It's a fucking recording!" he yelled. Jackson was pissed. How many more wild goose-chases would intel send them on? He rammed the TV with the butt of his carbine in his anger, the shattering of the glass cooling his temper slightly.

"Goddamnit..."

"Yeah. Score one for military intelligence..." Griggs muttered darkly.

"Command, this is Red Dog. TV station secure. No sign of Al-Asad. The broadcast is a recording, over." Vasquez informed Command. He scowled, not a pleasant sight. "Griggs, turn that shit off..."

"Roger that. I've got something better anyway." Griggs reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a CD. Jackson chuckled as his friend walked into the adjacent recording studio and inserted the CD into one of the players. A moment later, rap music drifted over the speakers, with Griggs bobbing his head in time to the beat.

"Roger that Command. Out." Vasquez addressed the room. "Marines! Rally up! We've got a new assignment. Get your gear and be ready to move out. ETA sixty mikes. Let's go!"


	6. Act 1: The Bog

**I don't own Infinity Ward or Call of Duty 4, durrrr.**

**Author's Note: First of all, sorry for the very slow update. I honestly lost interest in Call of Duty and it wasn't until I started replaying COD4 multiplayer(amazingly, people still play COD4 1.0 MP on PC) that I remembered this story. My apologies for this, and I will definitely finish this story, no matter how long it takes.**

**Sorry if this chapter was a bit shorter than the others, but this particular mission didn't really have that many sections, anyway.**

**Also, I've been entertaining the idea of writing a post-apocalyptic story for a while. I already have characters, a basic setting, and a smattering of plot. I only really need to hear what you guys think.**

**Oh, and it has zombies.**

* * *

**Unknown Country, Somewhere in the Middle East**

The assignment from HQ had been to reach a M1A1 tank, code-name War Pig, stuck in the bog and under attack on all sides. The armored behemoth was in danger of being overrun, so the Marines had gotten the job.

Currently, the machine gun nest in front of the squad was not making the job any easier.

_Well, this is encouraging._

At least, that was what Sgt. Paul Jackson, 1st Force Recon Marines thought as he crouched against the broken shell of what had formerly been a relatively expensive-looking car. _Nice upholstery_, he idly thought, before a spray of machine-gun fire shredded the asphalt in front of him.

All around him, fellow Marines were huddled behind cover in similar positions, occasionally popping up to return short bursts of fire. _How much ammo do I have left? Hm...5 M4 mags, that might be a problem...and 4 for the M9._ The machine-gunner interrupted his thoughts yet again with another burst that impacted fairly close to him.

_Fuck you.,_ he thought venomously. Jackson rotated to face the source of fire, locating the target through the filtered world of his NVGs. One, two, three rounds, and the machine gun was silenced. _That's more like it._

The kill had the effect of taking a large volume of fire off of the Marines, who used the opportunity to advance into the ruins of the building ahead. Jackson was among them, scanning for targets.

None appeared. The Marines advanced.

* * *

Ignoring the sounds of the enemy wounded, Jackson adjusted his NVGs and headed up the stairs with Pvt. Roycewicz on point. _Clear so far-_

A hoarse scream in Arabic, and Roycewicz fell to the floor with a burly figure trying to beat his head in. _Shit!_

Rational thought gave way to instinct, and with a loud _bang bang bang_, the scuffle ceased. Jackson pushed the corpse off of a wide-eyed Roycewicz, who took one look at the massive blood stain on his uniform and promptly threw up.

Stepping over the mess, Jackson extended a hand to the younger Marine, who shakily took it. "You ok, Royce?"

"Yeah..I just..goddamn.." Cough. "Yeah..I'll..I'll be ok."

Patting Roycewicz on the back, Jackson took point and peered around the doorway. _One, two, three, four targets, and all concentrated on our guys below... _Jackson scooted over to the other side of the doorway and motioned for his companion to stand where he had been standing. "Four tangos, hallway. I'll take far two, you take close two, got it?" Upon receiving an affirmative, Jackson peered to see if the enemy had moved at all. They hadn't. A muffled whisper of _"On three, one, two, THREE!"_, and two M4 carbines swung around the corner, fired six shots each, and fell silent.

"Hallway clear. All targets down. Lt. Vasquez, we're on the second floor, watch your fire." Jackson maneuvered down the hallway with Roycewicz while the Lieutenant repeated the information to the others.

Three more dead OpFor later, and finding nothing in the rooms ahead other than an enviable quantity of small arms, Jackson shifted his attention to a discarded SAW resting upon a ruined concrete wall, aimed towards an adjacent building, still filled with machine guns directing fire on his fellow Marines..

The Sergeant didn't need a cue to grab the SAW, take aim, and remember a certain film by Stanley Kubrick. _Get some! _he mentally roared, as the SAW began spitting lead. The muzzle swept methodically through the other building, floor by floor. Through the enormous muzzle flash, Jackson thought he saw a few figures go down. The enemy, panicked by the new direction of fire, scattered, although there weren't many left to do so.

Satisfied, Jackson headed back downstairs to rejoin his comrades.

* * *

Griggs ducked under a massive but poorly-aimed wall of fire, and yelled to Lt. Vasquez. "Sir, there's a ton of them out there!"

"SHUT UP and keep em pinned down!" snarled the hulking Latino, squeezing off shots with his M16A4.

"Roger, SUPPRESSING FIRE!" Griggs remounted the SAW as Jackson slid into position beside him, quickly popping off a few rounds. "You're late to the party, Paul, I've already inhaled all the beer, where have you been?"

"Wrecking your car and snogging your woman." Jackson snarked in reply.

"Now that just ain't cool, brother." Griggs drawled. The two shared a snigger before returning fire.

A loud clatter of AKM bullets forced their heads back down. Jackson waited for the incoming to cease, but it didn't. _What the fuck?_ he thought. _They must be trying to cover for something..._he peeked out, and through a wall of flames, he could just make out two figures running for..._a .50 cal. Shit!_ The walls of the building occupied by the Marines could hold against 7.62, but a .50 would cut through it like paper. _Can't get a clear shot, only one option left. _Jackson reached into a pouch and pulled out a small, deadly sphere.

"FRAG OUT!" he yelled, and hearing the info echoed down the line by other Marines, tossed the grenade and ducked.

_Boom. _The explosion rocked the closed confines of the market square, propelling white-hot shards of metal into unfortunate OpFor troops. The fortunate ones were killed instantly. The less fortunate fell screaming to the ground and clutching wounds, where Marine rifles cut them down. Jackson grimaced. _This ain't a fight anymore, it's a slaughter. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost._

A "Contact on the overpass!" jarred him from his thoughts. Looking upwards, Jackson saw dark figures moving into firing positions on the highway above, several with RPGs, which began to fire. Vasquez's deep rumble came over the comms. "U.A.V. recon has spotted four enemy tanks headed this way!" _Shit._ "Private West, get on the roof and hit 'em with the Javelin!"

"On it, sir!" came the reply. Jackson laid down covering fire, but-

"West is down. Private West is down!" _Damnit!_

"Jackson, retrieve that Javelin and hit those tanks!" Jackson vaulted through the window and sprinted over to the fallen Marine, grabbing the heavy missile launcher and lugging it over to the nearest building. Idly, he noted Roycewicz dragging the fallen West into the same room with one hand and firing with the other. Jackson set his M4 aside and picked up the heavy Javelin. _Fuck...I hope I remember how to use these. _Even as he thought this, his hands were already flying over and prepping the tube. _Huh. _Peering through the eyepiece, Jackson locked onto the the lead tank. _And...fire._

With a loud _fwoosh_, the missile leapt forth from the tube and rocketed skywards, quickly gaining altitude. The explosive continued its path for several seconds, and then turned towards the earth and screamed downwards straight onto the turret of the lead T-72.

_BANG._ The Javelin hit the tank like a massive sledgehammer, setting off secondary explosions as the ammunition in the turret cooked off. The cannon was bent beyond all recognition, and the crew internally torn apart by the massive concussion. Those that had been standing near the tank suffered the same fate.

"Solid hit!" Roycewicz called out. Jackson grunted in acknowledgement, and looked up to see Corporal Jamison running towards him with the rest of the Javelin tubes.

"Thanks." Jackson rasped, and began loading a second tube. Up on the overpass, the rear T-72 had panicked, and was starting to pull into reverse. _Oh no you don't, motherfucker. _Jackson finished the reload and acquired the rear tank. _Bombs away.._

_BANG._ The rear tank skidded a few meters and then screeched to a halt, a flaming wreck. With both the front and rear tanks destroyed, the other two were trapped in between, like fish in a barrel. The Javelin made short work of them, too.

"Ok, that's the last of them." Jamison huffed. Jackson handed the Javelin launch unit to him and grabbed his M4. Catching sight of Vasquez, Jackson followed him over to a rusty-looking chain-link fence, with a winding marketplace on the other side. One of the Marines took a can of corrosive spray and carved a man-sized hole, and pulled the now-separated section aside.

"Through the hole, go, go!" Jackson ducked through the hole and scanned the marketplace ahead, which turned out to be clear. The Marines began jogging towards the bog that lay ahead.

* * *

A nearly-panicked voice broke through on the radio. "Bravo Six, we're taking heavy fire from all directions. Where the hell are you?"

Vasquez's calming voice replied, "We're almost there, hang on!" To the squad, he barked, "Double time, move, move!" Thus proceeded a military maneuver known as hauling ass.

Jackson dropped down into something that vaguely resembled mud, turned around the corner of a cinder block wall, and right in front of him was War Pig, smoking in several places but still intact. Jackson could only see three Marines around the tank, desperately trying to hold off the enemy onslaught. Jackson followed Vasquez to a dumpster where one of the Marines was crouching. "Thank God you guys are here!" he gasped. "There's just four of us left. The tank's main gun is offline, but the machine guns still work and the engine is intact."

Vasquez took all of that in and nodded. "Alright, got it. Everyone, spread out, form a line!" He fingered his headpiece. "Contacts to the east and more flanking to the south! Hold the perimeter!" The Marines didn't need to be told. Every man was already in position and dropping targets. _Good fucking men, _Jackson thought with pride.

Beginning to engage targets himself, Jackson settled into a rhythm. Watch one sector, trust everyone else to do their jobs, an occasional search and assess. He settled his sights on one target and fired, hitting the man in the leg and hip. Jackson was about to finish him off when the man vanished with a loud _boom _and a small cloud of smoke. _What the fuck? Oh..shit!_ Jackson's hand scrambled to his radio. "They're movin' in with det-packs! Don't let 'em get close to the tank!" he shouted.

Vasquez responded a second later. "Roger, don't let anyone near the tank!"

HQ came in. "Bravo Six, be advised. More hostiles have assembled to the west of your position, over."

Vasquez responded with urgency in his voice. "Two Charlie, Bravo Six! Requesting air support for fire mission, over!"

"Uh, negative, Bravo Six, there's an enemy ZPU to the south of your position. Until you take it out, we can NOT risk sending in any more choppers, over."

Vasquez swore in response. He turned and barked, "Jackson, take Lopez, Gaines, Thompson, and Zhao south and find that ZPU. Everyone else, hold the perimeter!"

"Got it." Jackson replied. "Pop smoke!" Lopez, Thompson, and Zhao all pulled smoke grenades and tossed them into the space between the dumpster and the fence 30 meters away. The smoke billowed out, expanding into a solid screen. "Go, go, go!" They leapt up and dashed to the fence. Thompson leaned around the corner and dropped two targets. "Alright, Lopez, Gaines, stick with me. Thompson, Zhao, move up to those barrels, and then we'll advance and you cover, got it?" They all nodded. "Move!"

* * *

_Well, there's your problem._

Jackson glanced at the ZPU while Zhao and Gaines cut and rigged C4 blocks to the anti-aircraft gun. They attached the plastic explosive to vital components: the sights, the elevation and traversing mechanisms, and the barrel. Jackson, Lopez, and Thompson were providing over watch. Sporadic gunfire could be heard from the fog.

He turned to see Zhao walking up to him. "Sir, charges are in place, we should move away from the blast." the Asian Marine reported.

Jackson nodded. "Alright everyone, fall back to a safe distance, let's go!" He jogged behind a few thick walls, followed by the rest. "Everyone good?" Nods. "Gaines, blow the charge."

_Boom! _The explosion jarred the Marines and showered them with dust. Coughing, Jackson waved the particles away and heard Lopez muttering something to the effect of "Great, now I've got to redo my lipstick.". Snorting, Jackson led the dust-caked figures back to the squad.

One last building with machine gun nests overlooked the bog, and several Marines were still pinned down. A cool voice came in, accented by the sound of helicopter blades: "Bravo Six, Cobras One and Two inbound to your location, we need an exact fix on your pos, please mark, over."

Vasquez's familiar rumble responded. "Roger, Cobra. Jackson, we need an IR beacon over here!"

"On it." With his fellows laying down covering fire, he sprinted as close as he dared to the trapped Marines and deployed the beacon. Jackson rolled into cover and began laying down suppressive fire on the building as well. _Come on... come on..._

The same cool voice came over the comms. "OK, positive ID on your sparkle." _Yes!_ "We're comin' in hot from the northeast. Standby."

Jackson turned northeast, and felt joy surge through his veins as two_ beautiful_ Cobra gunships soared in gracefully above him, guns blazing and missiles flying. The 20mm cannon took rapid-fire bites out of the concrete and rockets shook the structure to its foundations. Enemy positions were _obliterated._ The entire building swayed, and then collapsed on itself to the cheers of excited Marines.

"Uh, Two, you see anyone left down there?"

"Negative, we got 'em." Jackson could feel the smirk on the pilot's face.

"Roger that. All targets destroyed and we're outta here. Good luck boys. Out." With that, the two gunships turned and left as gracefully as they had arrived.

Vasquez let out a deep breath and spoke into the radio. "Command, LZ is secure. Bring in the engineers and let's get this tank moving."

"Roger that. They're on the way. Good work. Out."

A brief simile crossed the face of the hulking Latino. He nodded to Griggs, who called out, "Squad, regroup at the tank, let's go!". The Marines settled into a steady jog for the quarter-mile back to the tank.

Back at the tank, Vasquez finished a crude drawing on the side of War Pig and announced "Listen up. We don't have much time to get this tank out of here. We'll take up defensive positions around the bog here, here, and here, and buy the engineers some time to get the tank moving. Oorah?"

Jackson nodded. "Oorah." _Not much sleep for us tonight, eh?_


End file.
